


Of Pumpkins, Drinking Elves and Other Strange Folk

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Autumn, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Post-Quest of Erebor, Seasonal, Storytelling, because Frodo loves the Elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-16 05:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Autumn is not only the season of Bilbo’s and Frodo’s shared birthday; it is the perfect season for cooking together and storytelling, too. How could a rainy evening be better spent than with hot apple cider in front of the warming fire?





	Of Pumpkins, Drinking Elves and Other Strange Folk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/gifts).



> Thank you so much, [violinclad](http://violinclad.tumblr.com/) and [vaityadil](http://vaityadil.tumblr.com/) for reading this story before publication! <3

  **Of Pumpkins, Drinking Elves and Other Strange Folk**

  *****

*****

  

Autumn came early this year. And with it came the subtle magic of the world being turned over yet again; blowing winds and pelting rain, changing leaves and the weather finally cold enough to drink tea throughout the day.

What Frodo loved best though, were the shadows which grew longer each day, granting him and his uncle wonderful evenings inside Bilbo’s cozy hobbit hole. Whilst many others said everything died in autumn, Frodo wholeheartedly disagreed: bustling squirrels searched for provisions for the harsh winter, dense banks of fog came over the Brandywine River each morning, just waiting for the sun to chase them across the field until they dissolved as if guided by magic.

Nothing died in autumn. Fantasy and tales came to life.

Autumn was Frodo’s favorite season. And Bilbo’s, too.

Resentful folks, especially the Sackville-Bagginses, said it was because of their shared birthday. It was not so. Although neither Frodo nor Bilbo would ever deny that their shared birthday was important, the special autumn mood was the true highlight, not the birthday.

How could an evening be better spent than with a hot cup of apple cider and freshly baked bread and cheese and ham, telling stories in the flickering light of the burning fire?

How could anything be more soothing than listening to howling winds and tapping rain?

The simple memory of such nights filled Frodo’s heart with warmth; soft patter of rain against the windows, mixing with his uncle’s voice to a susurrating sound that could easily lull him into slumber. Given he wasn’t hungry. Quite often their evenings stretched long into the night with only the moon bearing witness as the town itself was sleepy. It went so far, that the ritual of Midnight snacks and 3 a.m. early breakfast became a well-loved habit inside of Bag End.

Half of Hobbiton thought them mad for it. Frodo was certain it was solely based on jealousy. As if none of the Hobbits were prone to add a meal here and there whenever the opportunity presented itself? They were! It was just so that sleep was nearly as important as food, so a dilemma presented itself for most.

“Oh my dear Frodo,” Bilbo had said during one of those evenings as they were sitting closely by the fire. “It happened so many years ago, yet I still remember Lord Elrond’s eyes blinking in disbelief as I asked for second breakfast an hour after I had left the breakfast table.”

Not having second breakfast was beyond Frodo. “So Elves do not eat second breakfast?” he had asked, truly shocked by the insight his uncle had given him.

“They barely eat at all,” Bilbo had said with a shake of his head. To Frodo that was even worse – what did they do with all the spare time, then? “Although some enjoy drinking more than  is wise.”

Despite such oddities, Frodo had fallen in love with the Elves, those strange beings – immortal and wise – the moment Bilbo first spoke of them. He had never seen one himself, yet in his imagination he often had; Bilbo’s words were so intense and vivid that stories he had never experienced himself sprang to life.

 

*

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo said cheerfully as the door to his home swung open. In his arms he carried a massive pumpkin, gleaming surreally orange in the soft light of the late afternoon. As always when he returned from the afternoon strolls to Old Gaffer’s, his hands were dirty, fingers calloused.

“Bilbo!” exclaimed Frodo. Though gone only for half a day, he had missed his uncle genuinely. “The pumpkin is even larger than ours!”

“Yes, yes,” mumbled Bilbo into his non-existent beard, something Frodo was quite certain that his uncle had picked up from the strange wizard who occasionally showed up at Bilbo’s door step. “Seems as if we’re having pumpkin each day this winter.”

Frodo shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

In fact, Frodo didn’t mind at all. Pumpkin in every imaginable way, ranging from soups to pies to desserts was Frodo’s favorite food. Well – it was food, so he simply had to love it, right? “How’s the Old Gaffer doing?”

“Fine,” said Bilbo, placing the pumpkin on the table, right next to the one Frodo had harvested in the afternoon together with Sam. “I’m glad you’re such a good and healthy eater, lad.”

All Hobbits were like this, even the Sackville-Bagginses, so Frodo had always assumed it was just natural to eat whatever presented itself on his table. Judging from his own experience, absolutely everything was tasty. Good. Very good. Excellent. But always at least good. Soup, stew, dessert, sometimes all mixed together, it did not matter much. From Bilbo he had learned it was not so.

_‘And then there’s Gandalf, who would never eat anything red; orange, like the pumpkin, is fine for him, but never red. Can you believe that, dear Frodo, not eating tomatoes, and peppers, and chili – only the odd purple ones Sam grows sometimes? Yes, yes, I could never understand that and thought it was the worst but I was proven wrong. Oh, was I proven terribly wrong.’_

_‘By Elves and Dwarves alike. Can you believe this, Frodo? Dwalin doesn’t eat anything orange, he’s disgusted by it. So for Gandalf no reds, for Thorin only the finest veal, at best no vegetables at all, whilst Ori and Nori prefer anything green.’_

_‘Oh, and let’s not forget Kili and Fili who would not touch anything where onions and garlic are involved. A life without garlic is a wasted life, nephew. Wasted I say and I mean it! So you have 13 dwarves sitting in your kitchen, obviously hungry, close to starvation from the look in their eyes; and then they are fussing over who does not eat which sort of vegetable, eating dry bread when a mouthwatering smell of roasted pork and pumpkin soup fills my home. Ridiculous Frodo, I tell you.’_

Frodo pulled the sleeves of his green and orange plaid shirt well above his wrists. “I am hungry.”

Bilbo smiled at him fondly, doing the same with his shirt. “My true heir.”

The son Bilbo never had. It filled Frodo with warmth and affection.

Although Bilbo loved and cherished his nephew he never tried to undermine Frodo’s true heritage and the precious memory of his parents he kept close to his heart.

Many in Hobbiton thought Bilbo at least a little odd, after his journey through lands unknown all the more, because he had come back changed. Frodo loved him to the same extent as the others thought him odd, if not more. Since his childhood he had loved to listen to his uncle’s tales, always so full of magic and told so hauntingly that many a night he had lain awake afterwards. With all the adventures, dragons and Elves, dwarves and wizards, now Bilbo had so much to tell that often Frodo thought there could never be enough nights to share them all. “Pumpkin soup?”

Judging the smile correctly, Bilbo agreed. “Pumpkin soup with roasted pumpkin seeds,” Bilbo stated, adjusting the pumpkin on the wooden cutting board.

With a large knife Frodo pierced the pumpkin until the knife was securely inside it before he squatted on the floor, pumpkin in hand. Then, he took the knife handle in both hands and lifted the knife, pumpkin still attached, and smashed it several times on the floor until it split in two halves.

An unconventional method to split a pumpkin, but not ineffective at all. For Old Gaffer’s pumpkin, Frodo did the same, handing the pieces back to Bilbo who rinsed them with water. Both of them removed the seeds from the pumpkin with wooden spoons (those which had not been of interest to the Sackville-Bagginses and therefore still remained in Bilbo’s household), collecting them in a bowl for later use.

“Even the Elves enjoy roasted pumpkin seeds,” said Bilbo, beginning to chop the pumpkin.

Whilst Frodo used an ordinary kitchen knife to chop the pumpkin to little pieces, Bilbo used the folding knife he had brought back from the Quest of Erebor. Dwarven-steel, an heirloom found in Smaug’s incredible hoard of gold and glittering jewels, gifted to him by Thorin Oakenshield. Much to Frodo’s amazement it even cut bones in two without ever needing to be sharpened.

Frodo took a mouthful of apple cider, wiping his lips with the back of his hands. “At least these folks have some taste.”

An undignified sound, close to laughing, left Bilbo’s mouth. “I wouldn’t be too certain about that. A great taste in linguistics and music, I absolutely agree on that,” said Bilbo, knowing well how much Frodo loved those intricate swirling letters the Elves use to write. “Their clothing however is strange to our eyes, and nobody can convince me that it is not unpractical. The finest silks and flowing robes for bringing in the harvest. Isn’t that the most ridiculous garment for such tasks?”

Frodo laughed delightfully, imagining a bunch of golden-haired elves in shiny robes harvesting the cucumbers in his garden. Although only a figment of his imagination, they were quite the sight – and reason for spreading gossip.

He wasn’t alone with his admiration of the Elves. Bilbo loved and admired them equally, never growing tired of telling Frodo about his nights in the Hall of Fire of Rivendell, filled with warmth and merriment. Sometimes Frodo would ask if Bilbo missed the strange immortal folk, and too hastily Bilbo always denied it; each time the shadow in Bilbo’s eyes had grown so that in the end, Frodo had refrained from asking. Instead he relished in the tales worth being told over and over again.

“Perfect,” declared Bilbo as they both finished chopping the pumpkins at almost the same time.

Before Bilbo’s return from Old Gaffer’s farm Frodo had not been sitting around idly: he had chopped onions and garlic, plenty of it, a few carrots and chili. By then he had not known what dish would be served tonight, but all of these ingredients should be a part of **_every_** dish.

At least for Bilbo and Frodo.

Sam, too.

Apparently dwarves were a different matter entirely.  

From a cupboard Frodo retrieved a large iron pot in which he poured some oil, putting it on the stove.

In the wake of it, Bilbo caught Frodo in a strong embrace. “My dear Frodo, thank you for this.”

It was Bilbo’s very own way to say _‘Thank you for everything’._

“You are very welcome,” said Frodo, adding the mixture of onions, and garlic, and spices to the heated oil.

Immediately, the heartwarming smell of simmering onions filled Bilbo’s home. Whilst inside it was cozily warm, comfortable and soothing, outside rain began to tap against the round windows. Of exactly such things were Frodo’s autumn fantasies made.

Freeing himself from Bilbo’s arms, he added a few pumpkin pieces to the sizzling pot and waited before he finally added the water and the rest of the pumpkin to the pot. Frodo washed his hands and dried them, taking a sip of apple cider afterwards.

“Oh, good evening Lobelia. I haven’t seen you in a while.” Bilbo said all of a sudden, looking up to the ceiling. Frodo followed his gaze, his own landing on a big black spider in the corner.

Frodo couldn’t quite believe it. “You named a spider Lobelia?” he asked, suppressing the chuckle that was forming in his throat.

Bilbo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Can’t you see, Frodo? How she’s sitting there, fat and ugly, watching us as she tries to figure out where my silver spoons are hidden?”

At that, Frodo burst out laughing. That was Bilbo, how Frodo had come to love his uncle: cheerfulness paired with a pitch-black humor, always incredibly honest.

Shaking his head, Frodo placed the lid on the pot, turning it a bit away from the stove. Like this it had to simmer for at least half an hour, which gave them plenty of time to prepare the roasted seeds and lay the dinner table.

Together they freed the oozy seeds from the remaining pulp, one by one. It was a tedious affair and Frodo was glad that Bilbo offered more than a helping hand. Cooking together has become a beloved routine for them over the years, a time of mutual appreciation. From the day on which Bilbo had taken Frodo into his home their relationship had prospered, going far beyond the usual relationship between uncle and nephew.

They were friends. The best of friends, having so much in common that at times it felt surreal.

Whilst the pumpkin noisily bubbled on the stove, Frodo cleaned the seeds in a bowl of lukewarm water and Bilbo dried them.

Much had Frodo learned from his mother, may she be forever blessed: how to peel potatoes, how to beat eggs and scramble them afterwards, how to prepare the most delicious garlic bread that half of Hobbiton went wild for on the annual harvest feast. Preparing food was basic education in Hobbit culture and of the utmost importance. So knowledge passed from parent to child, additionally being taught at school. It was taught to girls and boys alike, beginning at quite an early age. To Frodo naturally all that made sense. After all, food was the main thing to occupy your days with. Frodo was out right shocked when he had learned from Bilbo that it was not like this in every culture. That in other cultures mostly women were responsible for preparing the dishes.

Wasn’t that unfair? And dangerous, too? What would happen if all the women passed away, would the men starve?

Soon, dried pumpkin seeds sizzled in a pan filled with melted butter, mildly salted with a bit of garlic, until their color turned from pale to brownish.

Frodo wiped his hands on his apron. “I’ll set the table.”

“Thank you.” In the meanwhile, Bilbo retrieved plates and glasses from several wall cupboards, holding conversation with Lobelia who sat unmoved in the corner, watching. He picked up his knife once more, the blade flashing in the light of the stove, cutting honey-glazed carrots in little pieces.

And just as Frodo had finished setting the table generously with cutlery and bowls and additional plates, cream and salt and pepper, Bilbo declared the pumpkin good and ready. A carafe of cider stood on the table too, next to the round wooden table mat with two cups on either side.

Together, they squished the pumpkin, Bilbo holding the pot with two handkerchiefs whilst Frodo squished it with a great deal of effort until the soup had the perfect texture. It was thick and creamy, but not so thick as to be mistaken as stew. Not that Frodo had anything against pumpkin stew, no.

The pot of soup was still steaming when it came to the table, garnished with a generous handful of roasted pumpkin seeds and coarsely chopped wild chives.

“Ah, what a smell,” said Bilbo, waving the steam into his direction with his palm as Frodo placed the pot onto the table mat.

Frodo could not agree more. He had been hungry the entire day – now he was starving, his mouth watering as his gaze landed on the garlic bread, still standing neglected on the kitchen table. He brought it to the table as quick as he could. Dinner wasn’t dinner without garlic bread, Bilbo and Frodo had easily agreed on that.

“Sit down, uncle, before the dish gets cold.” Not entirely selfless, Frodo ushered his uncle to sit.

Bilbo did not need to be told twice. He sat down, placing his cloth napkin over his lap just before he filled two bowls with the steaming soup, one for Frodo and one for himself. Meanwhile, Frodo abundantly refilled their cups with apple cider, careful not to spill Sam’s finest vintage.

The first spoon of soup in Frodo’s mouth felt like pure bliss, warmth flooding him the moment the hot liquid touched his tongue and all its different tastes unfolded themselves. For Bilbo it wasn’t much different, judging from the content expression playing about his face. The first bowl they almost ate in silence, too hungry to bother with talking. That always came later – second, third and fourth refill courses were made for conversation and they were the very reason why Hobbit meals stretched over several hours. With the first appetite quenched, hunger always gave way to merriment. Bilbo took another mouthful of soup, followed by a large sip of cider and hummed his appreciation.

As they ate the second refill course, Bilbo told Frodo about Old Gaffer’s struggle with the zucchini this year; too many snails had eaten the precious flowers so that the plants did not bear much fruit. Truly a pity, thought Frodo, because Old Gaffer’s zucchinis were famed throughout the Shire for their marvelous taste. According to Bilbo it was a different species of snails, hungrier and larger than the ordinary Shire snails.  It even went so far that Old Gaffer suspected Merry and Pippin of setting the creatures free late at night.

Frodo shook his head, laughing. “Oh, that’s insane.” Although it actually did quite sound like Pippin, he would never do it. After all, food was involved.

Bilbo looked at him, so Frodo went on, tearing garlic bread in two pieces before he said: “Pippin and Merry tend to steal from Old Gaffer’s fields whatever is ripe when they pass by, so what benefit would come from setting free hungry snails on his property? See? It is absolutely ridiculous.”

Thinking, Bilbo rubbed his chin. “True.”

They did not speak about it afterwards, their conversation drifting towards Bilbo’s quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.

Bilbo never grew tired of telling and retelling the tale. Frodo never tired of listening, absorbing all details like a sponge. It was a win-win situation, especially for Bilbo since nobody else seemed to be interested in his adventures. Hobbits simply did not wander the great wide world, a comfortable hole and plenty of food satisfied most of their needs. Dragons, and wizards, and Elves: better they remained strangers, only alive in children’s books.

Not so for Frodo. He wished he had partaken in Bilbo’s adventures, had seen a flying dragon and the Elves. In the end, his curiosity always narrowed down to the Immortal Folk. When he lay awake at night, listening to the sounds of nature, he often transferred his mind into the world he only knew from Bilbo’s tales. Peeling roasted pumpkin seeds, Bilbo was telling Frodo of his days in King Thranduil’s halls, a labyrinth hewn into the stone, as large as the entire shire, as he never failed to mention.

Frodo wiped his lips with the back of the hand. “So you said some of the elves drink more wine than perhaps is wise.”

“Aye,” said Bilbo, nodding. “King Thranduil is overly fond of expensive reds.”

Frodo’s voice cracked. “So if they drink … do they have drinking games?”

They **_must_** have drinking games.

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to laugh. “The one I spoke of rather not. I guess, though I do not know for certain. You know Frodo, you do not ask an Elvenking such things.”

“You also do not steal things under the very nose of an Elvenking,” said Frodo, mischief ringing in his voice.

Bilbo’s reply came with a laugh. “Fair point, lad.”

“I just thought,” Frodo said defensively, a little bit disappointed, “perhaps you had seen something whilst sneaking around his Halls.”

The King of the Woodland Realm had always intrigued Frodo in a rather special way.

“King Thranduil playing drinking games with his guards. I’d pay quarter of my wealth to witness that, Frodo; my silver spoons, too.” Frodo was not quite certain if his uncle meant what he was saying; he was quite fond of the wealth that had come with the successful quest. “But no, Frodo, I have not, and daresay nobody ever will. If he indulges in such frenzies he does so in utmost secrecy. I’ve seen others, though.”

Frodo cut him off, excitement tinting his speech all over again. “You have?”

Bilbo nodded, mouth filled with pumpkin seeds. “Aye. In Rivendell, a game played among the soldiers.”

Curiosity made Frodo’s eyes grow wide. “How?”

“Lord Elrond granted me permission to wander the openly accessible parts of his valley as it pleased me so I often did,” Bilbo began, smiling upon the memory that filled his mind. Although Frodo usually was quite patient, he now was not. The same excitement that lit Frodo’s face was audibly in Bilbo’s voice. “Oh Frodo. I was so curious to see everything. Everything! They are so unlike us, fair and wise and immortal – and then they are not. So one night, I lost myself in my wanderings, thoughts occupied with the beauty laid out before me. Little streams, lit by gentle moonlight, the air filled with whispers in a language so beautiful that simply listening to it made me dream of lands unknown. I ventured far and further away from the Hall of Fire until the sounds were barely there. But then, other sounds reached my ears – louder and somewhat more raucous, if one can use such words for Elves.”

Frodo’s eyes were glued to his uncle’s lips, trying to imagine the lovely scenery Bilbo described.

“Curiosity led me down towards the flowing river where Rivendell’s guards, their barracks and the stables are located. Little fires burnt brightly with several Elves sitting around them, their armor scattered around them. They must have returned from a patrol earlier that day, I concluded, wiggling my toes deep into the earth as I watched them drink and laugh until one of them raised his cup high in the air. He declared something, his voice sounding hoarse and strangled – obviously he was drunk. All the others seemed to agree, raising their cups high into the air, following his example. He was without doubt a warrior, broad shoulders and golden-gleaming hair. Much wine splattered to the ground, and later so much more but refills always came swift. A question was asked, and then another. My knowledge of their tongue was limited, nonetheless it was enticing to watch.”

“So how would you know what they were saying then?” Even when he was being nosy, Frodo still was genteel about it. Many accused Bilbo of lying – or at least exaggerating shamelessly, Frodo knew he did not. Bilbo was always being honest.

“I did not,” Bilbo affirmed, “not right away at least. But you know me, dear Frodo. Once my curiosity is piqued, I cannot relent. So I asked Lord Glorfindel the next morning over breakfast. First breakfast.” At that, Bilbo laughed heartedly.

Frodo almost choked on his cider. Glorfindel had been _the_ hero of Bilbo’s tales, even more so than Lord Elrond whom Bilbo held in high esteem. “You did what?”

“Asked Lord Glorfindel about that matter.” Bilbo’s smile was indulgent. “Does this surprise you?”

Frodo wrinkled his nose. “It does?”

Bilbo gulped down a good amount of cider, not answering right away. “Why? He seemed just like the person who initiates such games. And I was not mistaken. After a good laugh he explained their game to me in broad detail, leaving nothing out.”

Frodo was genuinely surprised. Especially by Bilbo’s boldness. “I never thought –”

A hum heralded Bilbo’s words. “Exactly, that is the problem with the Elves, Frodo – the problem _we_ have with the immortal folk. We are the problem, the way we tend to perceive them. Superior to everybody else, like gods lost in this ordinary word. All we ever see is their otherworldly appearance, their wisdom, ignoring that in truth they are just like us, in a way at least. Beings with the same needs and sorrows as us; fathers and mothers, soldiers, stable boys, craftsmen, folk that enjoy drinking and merriment just as us. Differently, aye, but in the end it all is the same. He promised to play the game with me should I ever return to the Last Homely House.”

“What wouldn’t I give to see Elves with my own eyes,” sighed Frodo.

“Perhaps one day you will,” said Bilbo, visibly relaxing in his seat. “Remember when you were but a child, telling me that you wish to see wizards? As of today, you have spoken to a wizard.”

Frodo had even eaten dinner with Gandalf on several occasions.

After the fifth refill, even the hungriest Hobbits were sated. At least for two hours, until their bellies weren’t sticking out anymore, that is.

Together they cleared the dishes from the table and sat down in front of the fireplace. A couple of weeks after Frodo had moved in, Bilbo had bought a second armchair for the fireplace, plush and cozy, just like his own.

A burning fire, a cup of cider in hand, and a friend with so many stories to tell – what better way was there to spend a rainy evening?

For a couple of moments Frodo simply watched the flames dance. “What is he like?” he asked, watching the flames over the rim of his cup, “King Thranduil, I mean?”

Bilbo sighed. “Different.” Frodo focused his gaze on Bilbo’s face, waiting.

Thus, Bilbo began to tell the tale of the Wood Elves and their proud king. “I had been enthralled by the Elves of Rivendell the moment I laid my eyes upon them. Later then, by Master Elrond himself. Despite his rank, he appeared as the gentlest being I have ever known.”

“More than Gandalf?” Frodo asked quietly.

“Without doubt. Gandalf can be quite terrifying. Lord Elrond though is kind and wise, with an open ear and a helping hand for everybody. His behavior and attitude reflect themselves in Rivendell’s inhabitants. Physical wealth and treasure seem not to matter in their eyes. I fell in love with their laughter, their music, their lore and merriment in an instant, and I was mistaken to assume such unconditional kindness is lived by all.”

For a moment Bilbo looked at Frodo, then shook his head. “No, Frodo. I am not saying King Thranduil is not kind; only that I perceived him as unkind when first I encountered him. My own unawareness of many things had led to that assumption. I had never known how many battles had been fought between the Elves and Dwarves over treasures and land; how many rifts history had caused. I did not know, Frodo. Not until Gandalf told me about the motives behind King Thranduil’s order to capture the dwarves that night at the fire; about the evil spirits corrupting his forest, poisoning its streams and rivers. Gandalf told me about the connection the Elvenking has with his land, too; that each dying tree makes King Thranduil’s heart bleed as if his own son was dying. Astonishing, is it not?”

Bilbo blinked, Frodo noticed, as if struggling to focus his thoughts. “He is the proudest man I ever saw, Frodo, with green eyes and a piercing stare just like those of a dragon. Stern and regal, he is, with silken robes sweeping across the floor as he walks his halls in silence. Yet as we bade each other farewell he knelt before me, his eyes, now kind and understanding, on the same level as mine. A necklace he gave me, silver and pearls, but his greatest gift was words alone: ‘Elf-friend’ he named me, despite everything I did. I stole from him, I freed his captives, much to his dismay I may add. Nonetheless he smiled at me as he took my hands into his own and encouraged me to steal yet again. No, Frodo, he is not unkind, just differently kind. What he seeks is to protect his realm, his people. By all means, by everything it takes. Could I resent him for it?”

Frodo could not, shaking his head in agreement.

Just as expected, the evening stretched long into the night, winds blowing outside which shook the golden leaves from the trees, whilst inside their little hobbit hole laughter and cheerfulness reigned.

*

 


End file.
